Inmate 1577 (27 page)

“No. No, I mean, we leave. We escape.” He leaned toward the bars and let his eyes dart back and forth, scanning the cell block. “We got a way out of here. We could use another guy.”

“I’ve been thinking about the same thing. Trying to figure a way to get out, find my son.” MacNally scooted closer. “You said you need some help.” He tapped his chest, suggesting himself as an option.

“It ain’t something to take lightly. You get caught, they add time. We’re here, in this shithole, because we’re good at escaping. Got out of every damn place they put us. If we could just stop gettin’ caught robbin’ stupid banks, we’d be two fuckin’ happy guys. But no. They always nab our asses and throw us back in the joint.”

“How—” MacNally lowered his voice. “How do you think you’re gonna get out of here?”

“Clarence works in the bakery, and I just got a job in the kitchen. Clarence reckons to hide away in a box, one of them big ones they use to bring bread into the kitchen.”

“A breadbox? You’re shitting me. That won’t work.”

“Oh, yeah?” Anglin’s face hardened. “How many prisons you break out of, Mac?”

MacNally leaned back.

“Yeah,” Anglin said, “didn’t think so. From the day I got here, I been thinking about leaving. And I’m not just talkin’ ’bout thinking of it, I mean really figuring it out. Watching, talkin’ with guys, workin’ through how things work. That’s how I do it. I look for the weak points, the things the hacks don’t think about. Human nature, people gettin’ lazy and not doing their jobs. See?”

MacNally nodded. “I’ve been watching for stuff like that, too. Go on.”

“The hacks count us four times a day, right? The one at four o’clock’s a stand-up count, and that’s a tough one to beat. So I reckon we don’t try. Clarence’ll be there for that one. But the next one, at ten, is a much easier one to beat. Prop up some shit in your bed, make it look like there’s a body there, and you’re good to go. That gives Clarence six hours to get himself into the back of that there delivery truck and hide. When they drive off, ’bout seven, he’ll have a three-hour head start before they even know to start lookin’ for him. Follow?”

“That’s not bad,” MacNally said. “I was wondering how to beat the count. That’s where I kept getting hung up.”

“Like I said before, you gotta look for the weak points. Like that bread truck. A buddy of mine knows a guy who did time here once. He built a fake wall inside the back, just for Clarence. If we can get Clarence into the truck, he can get behind that wall and drive clear outta here. We don’t have to cut through no bars, beat on a guard, none of the shit that’d git us a year in the Hole.”

MacNally considered the plan. “The beauty’s in its simplicity.”

“You want in, or not?”

“What do I have to do?”

“I’ve gotta get Clarence into that metal box. Then I gotta push him into the kitchen elevator. There’s a guard nearby, so we need to take his mind off things. Create a diversion.”

MacNally thought about it a moment. If the Custodial Associate Warden sensed that he was involved, he’d be heavily disciplined. How bad, he had no idea. Time in the Hole, for sure. Of course, more than likely they wouldn’t be able to prove he was mixed up in the escape attempt, and if he handled the diversion properly, he could make it look like it wasn’t of his doing.

“What’s in it for me?” If MacNally hadn’t asked the question, Anglin would’ve been suspicious. Cons formed alliances, but there was a world of difference between pacts for convenience sake—and loyalty. MacNally had been told that even brothers snitched on one another in prison.

Anglin said, “I help you plan something. You’re smart about it, you get to be with your son.”

MacNally found himself nodding before he could speak or even think it through.

“Tomorrow. During dinner. Gets dark early, good time for Clarence to blow this joint.”

“How do you know,” MacNally said, “that they won’t lock the place down and search the truck?”

“Won’t matter. They did a good job with that fake wall. They won’t find him.”

“You sure?”

Anglin ground his jaw. “Let me worry ’bout that shit.”

MacNally went over more details with Anglin, and then laid back on his bunk to figure out his diversion. He knew it had to be good, and it had to be clever. He fell asleep working those thoughts through his mind.

IN KEEPING WITH CLARENCE’S ESCAPE, the diversion MacNally sketched out would be as simple as possible to ensure a successful implementation and to reduce the risk of something going awry.

They were on the yard, amidst inmates who were lifting weights, smoking, and telling stories. Anglin closed his eyes and craned his neck skyward, the sun fully on his face. “What’s your plan?”

MacNally spoke in hushed tones, his face canted toward the ground to prevent an officer or a snitch from reading his lips. “Get into an argument with someone. Loud, aggressive. I can sell it pretty good, I think.”

“Keep going.”

“If I can make it seem as if it was started by the other guy, and it’s convincing, even if they suspect I was involved, they’d never be able to prove it. By keeping it ‘in-house,’ between me and you, there’s no way for the hacks to prove it was a setup.”

“They don’t need no proof to throw you in the Hole. Suspicion’s enough for ’em.”

“If they had proof, it’d be much worse.”

Anglin bobbed his head, his eyes darting from side to side as he processed what MacNally had told him. Finally, he nodded his approval.

The following day, MacNally shuffled into the dining hall along with his cellhouse’s complement of inmates. John and Clarence Anglin were already in the kitchen on duty, as they were supposed to be. MacNally figured the best place for him to be was nearby, because when the shouting started, inmates would either stay put or leave their seats, anxious to put distance between themselves and the altercation. Being a witness to even the most minor incident can result in a quick death at the hands of the head inmate’s enforcers.

Once the commotion had started, Anglin and another inmate could load the box containing Clarence into the truck. It would be heavy, but if the guard watching them was properly distracted, they could get it into the back without the officer realizing that it weighed substantially more than it should.

MacNally took care to choose an unwitting partner. He asked Clarence who would make a good victim—someone who was not connected to a gang that would take retribution against MacNally for what he was about to do. Clarence selected a fish, a new inmate who hadn’t had the opportunity to make friends or forge alliances: Neil Wallace, a slightly built white-collar criminal who did not appear to have the constitution or stature to defend himself.

Clarence pointed out Wallace earlier that afternoon, and as they entered the dining hall, MacNally engaged the man in conversation while steering him toward the preselected location, near the kitchen.

Two minutes after getting their food, MacNally continued his discussion with Wallace before abruptly slamming his fork down. “What the hell did you say, motherfucker?” He jumped up from his seat and leaned across the table. “Go on—say it again.”

Wallace leaned back, his mouth agape, hands splayed in surrender.

Feigning an unsatisfactory response, MacNally tossed his bowl of chili into Wallace’s lap. The inmate reflexively sprung up, the shock of MacNally’s unexpected aggression—and the pain of the burning liquid against his skin—registering in the contortion of Wallace’s face. It was the sort of spontaneous reaction that was not possible unless it was a genuine response.

MacNally reached across the table and slammed a fist into Wallace’s jaw, and the man tipped backward over his bench, arms flailing in the air before he landed hard on his back. He shook his head to get his wits about himself, then tried to scramble away in retreat, his feet sliding against the slick ground.

But MacNally knew the altercation hadn’t lasted long enough to buy Anglin sufficient time to get Clarence loaded into the truck, so he clambered over the table and threw himself atop Wallace.

Shouting erupted from across the cavernous room: guards yelling orders to MacNally and Wallace to break it up; at each other to communicate what was going on; and at surrounding inmates to stay put.

MacNally drew back and punched Wallace repeatedly in the face until two correctional officers approached from opposite sides. While one guard fought his way through, the other grabbed MacNally by the collar of his shirt and yanked him to the side.

MacNally lunged at his prey—lest there be no question he was sincere—and landed another punch before the guards got a firmer hold. A kick to Wallace’s face served as MacNally’s parting shot as the officers slammed him to the floor, face first. They snapped handcuffs around his wrists while four other guards, who had just arrived, searched him for knives or shivs.

Wallace rolled along the floor, swiped at his bloody face with a sleeve, then looked up at MacNally, who was on his feet and being hauled away.

FOLLOWING THE DINING HALL INCIDENT, MacNally had been sent back to the Hole, a part of the institution with which he was unfortunately becoming familiar.

It would be his home for the foreseeable future while he awaited a disciplinary hearing to determine what punishment would be meted out. As MacNally stared at Henry’s photo, lost in thought, he heard a noise.

Voorhees was standing at the bars, a clipboard in his left hand, his jaw tight. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

Voorhees did not answer, but led MacNally into an office off the corridor. The door had barely closed when Voorhees spun on him. “That was a goddamn bullshit stunt you pulled.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Clarence Anglin was caught. Goddamn idiot—thought he could sneak out in a box. A guard saw his brother and another inmate trying to lift the thing, which was supposedly filled with bread. A body weighs a whole lot more than fucking bread. Must’ve thought we’re all stupid or something.”

MacNally attempted to keep his face from betraying the intense sadness that flooded his thoughts. All that for nothing. He had done his part, though he doubted Anglin would help him now—or even be in a position to do so.

“Those Anglins aren’t too swift, ’cause if they were, they’da known that when there’s a fight in the dining hall, the rear gate’s immediately shut down. Any vehicles in the institution would be searched by several guards before it’d be let out off the grounds.”

“Good to know,” MacNally said impassively.

Voorhees lowered his voice. “Did you know they were gonna do this?”

MacNally forced a chuckle. “Why would they tell me anything? And why would I help J.W.’s brother escape—what’s in it for me?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, MacNally.” He was now speaking just above a whisper. “I’m giving you a last chance to work with me. Give me something I can use, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“Remember what I told you that first day? Your time here’s gonna be defined by choices. Choices you make—good ones and bad ones.”

“I remember everything you told me,” MacNally said. “And you also told me you can’t protect me. And you told me I gotta learn con law. And you told me that if I don’t wanna get fucked again, I gotta stand up for myself and grow a set of balls. Do you remember telling me all that?”

Voorhees’s face burned red. Through a muscular jaw, he said, “That fight was all just a bullshit act to distract the guard and let Anglin get his brother loaded into the truck. Wasn’t it?”

MacNally looked down at his red and swollen hand. He held it up. “An act? I might’ve broken my hand, and you think it was bullshit?”

Voorhees refused to let his eyes find the inmate’s hand. “I don’t know if they’re gonna be able to prove it, but I know what you did.” He shook his head. “Fucking broke Wallace’s jaw and sent him to the hospital. Guess I’m the goddamn fool. I thought you were different from all these scumbags here. I even bought that sob story about your kid.”

At the mention of Henry, MacNally stepped forward—but Voorhees stood his ground, lips tight.

He felt bad that he had deceived the officer; the man had been straight with him since he had arrived. As much as he was able to, Voorhees had attempted to help MacNally navigate the difficult transition to incarceration in a place like this. He surmised now, in retrospect, and being less green than he was when he arrived, that Voorhees was probably taking substantial risk in striking up a relationship with him. But this place, he was learning, was not a place of friendships—it was a place of survival. You helped those who helped you, and the rest of the population could go to hell—until you required their assistance, and then you became their best buddy and screwed over the guy you had been friends with.

Deception and subterfuge were the method of operation—and currency—of penitentiary life. If MacNally was ever going to see his son again, he had to choose a side, and as well as Voorhees had treated him, there was a limit to what the guard could do. Anglin was going to help him escape, whereas the “value” of his relationship with Voorhees had already reached a pinnacle and, unless he turned into his snitch, would only diminish going forward.

“You’re just as fuckin’ bad as the rest of ’em,” Voorhees said.

“That’s not true. And you know it.” It
was
once true. Was it still?

“Apparently, I don’t know nothing.” Voorhees shook his head, his face contorted in contempt.

He grabbed for the door, flung it open, and shoved MacNally into the corridor. “Get back to your cell. I’m done with you.”

Burden steered the Taurus along the winding, tree-canopied Telegraph Hill Boulevard, negotiating the curves until he came to a full stop behind a long line of cars.

“Shit, I should’ve thought of this,” Friedberg said.

“Tourists,” Burden said, in explanation for Vail. “They jam up the approach to Coit Tower, it’s like a freaking parking lot.” He swung the car around and did a three-point turn on the two-lane road. Following at a close distance was Clay Allman, mirroring Burden’s maneuvers.